September TwentyFirst
by LSMunch
Summary: Because this is where many of their comrades and friends are lying. Entombed by the rubble, part of the dust they inhale. And they inhale deeply, trying to be closer to their fallen brethren.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: Not mine.

They walk away from the bus, tired, dirty, beaten. Another night at the Pile. Their feet fell heavy on the road as they made their way back to their sanctuary, towards beds that beckoned them to hurry. The candles and fliers right outside the door was a normal sight now, as they trudged past into the building. Now was not the time to stop and wonder at the sudden generosity and kindness of the average citizen. Now was the time for sleep. Beautiful, dead sleep. They haven't had any nightmares yet, not really, because they're so tired that when they do get to sleep, they pass out and to wake them is like waking the dead from their eternal sleep.

The city has suddenly, and unnecessarily it seems to them, dubbed them heroes in the midst of tragedy. To them, the firefighters, it was routine... run into a burning building, put out the fire, save people. To the city, it was as if God had come and blessed them one morning with these brave men and women who ran into burning buildings while everyone else was running out. The city finally realized that firefighters died, too, just by doing their job.

And even now, when the fire is out, they are still there, digging through the rubble of what once used to be the tallest two buildings in the city. In the night turned day, they pass buckets down the line, full of debris, and then back up, empty. Though the task may seem tedious at times, they can't bring themselves to leave. Because this is where many of their comrades and friends are lying. Entombed by the rubble, part of the dust they inhale. And they inhale deeply, trying to be closer to their fallen brethren.

One firefighter stops in front of the firehouse, in front of a woman and her little boy. And he takes the homemade card the boy hands him, tears in his eyes.

_I'm sorry the plane hit the building._

_Love, Sam_


	2. Chapter 2

They dump the bags on the table, happy for food that they can make for themselves. Monday means barbecue; meat with that special flavor and smell, vegetables grilled to perfection, a crisp salad, and baked beans. After looking warily at their colleagues, they embrace the idea and start to get excited. That's when their haggard lieutenant walks in.

He looks at them a minute before anyone notices him and he wishes that he didn't have to erase their happiness, especially after what the past two weeks have taken from them. Soon, they are all silent, joking manner gone and that's when he tells them. "They found Tommy Doyle." What he says next, none of them really hear, for whatever it is, they now it's not "and he's alive."

Because even though they knew deep down inside he could never be alive, they all had harbored this crazy hope that maybe, just maybe, their boy would make it out.

Later, riding in silence in the fire truck, their lieutenant points to the crowd in front of the firehouse. Every person there holds at least one candle, lighting the way for their fallen brother. For, even though they had never known him, even though they had never fought fire beside him, he was their brother, as much as he was to any firefighter. He was their blood. Old fashioned New York City blood, and it ran through all their veins, that night and everyone before and since. They just didn't realize it until that day.

They all jump off the truck and one firefighter, the same one who took the card from the little boy Sam, stops and hugs a woman, his brother's wife. And he leads her inside as the one female firefighter, their one sister, stops and scoops up a little girl, her brother's daughter. And she carries her inside as the lieutenant stops, and with the help of another, hangs an American flag at the bottom of the staircase. The lieutenant turns back to the garage, to the candles, to the people, to his family.

And as he looks out over all the people, all the strangers. all the friends he's never met, he can only think of one thing to say.

"Thank you."

But that was just crazy hope.


	3. Chapter 3

She's been working twenty-hour shifts for longer than she can remember, when it's only been two weeks. They've all been working them, these long shifts that leave them more than tired, more than exhausted. Her partner even goes down to the Pile, digs through the rubble and coughs during their shift, this horrible sounding thing that makes it sound as if he's trying to get rid of his lungs.

She gets home after one of these shifts; her husband is propped up in the bed, watching the news which consists of reports related to September 11th. She sits on the bed, undoes her shoes, throws them down on the floor. She pulls up her knee, looks at the television, lets the words sweep over her, not really listening. The images are enough.

Enough to make her cry.

She hasn't cried, not really. She's been to more memorials than she cares to remember, a number she knows is forever lost to every police officer who attended them. Even to a few of those officers she knew, whether from the Academy or who she worked with at one point. Either way, it doesn't really matter, because they're gone and up until now, she was numb. She went about work, drove past suddenly thankful citizens, and none of it mattered until now. She would wave and accept the gratitude of complete strangers, but she didn't realize what they were really saying until now.

Her tears fall, and her husband, although he rubs her back and takes her into his arms, he doesn't understand. Although it's his city and his country too, he doesn't understand. He's never understood her dedication to her job, no matter how dangerous it gets, and he doesn't really understand her sorrow over it now.

It's all he can do.

Hold her.

And wait.

To understand.


End file.
